


Secrets

by azerothian



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 02:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2755370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azerothian/pseuds/azerothian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There was a time when there were few secrets between us." Durotan tries to talk to his old friend and is not too successful. Durotan/Drek'thar, mention of Durotan/Draka and polyamory. Takes place during WOD's alternate timeline, between the fall of the Dark Portal and the battle of Frostfire Ridge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> For Derogative.

The night was cold, much like any other night in Frostfire Ridge, but it came with a fog that settled into the bone. No matter how many layers of fur Durotan wore, he could feel it. It was a night like this when his father had been slain and Durotan made the new chieftain of the Frostwolves. Many lives had been lost during a raid on one of the outposts this morning, and he ached to think of the endless bloodshed that still awaited them. There would be no hunting tonight, for the cold was too dangerous even for those experienced with it. His people would hunker down in burrows made of snow, or retreat into shallow caves and huts if they were lucky enough to be near a settlement.

This... Iron Horde would come to them. It was all Durotan could do to stem the wounds that were enemy clans sacking Frostwolf villages and kidnapping villagers. And then, fueled by fury as always, his reckless brother had sped right back into jaws of danger. They had already lost one brother, and yet Ga'nar could not understand that Durotan acted conservatively because he had no other choice.

Oh, ancestors. Had it been this hard for his father, too?

He sighed heavily, rubbing at one of his blue eyes with his knuckle. His feet had brought him to the shamanstone. No one else was crazy enough to be up and around this night-- except for Drek'thar. He could make out his silhouette fairly well, and the waxing moon and stars certainly helped. Of course the light was lost on the blind shaman, but there was something to be said about the warmth of old friends, and he found himself drawn to the hard ground beside him.

"It will only get colder as the moon rises," Durotan said. "You should make your way inside like the rest." Drek'thar gazed at the shamanstone, though Durotan got the distinct impression that he was fixated on something else. The chieftain paused, then added, "Tell me what is bothering you, shaman."

"It would be easier to ask what isn't bothering me," Drek'thar replied, his baritone voice bitter. "The elements have been quiet since I was freed. They are angry and troubled at the abuse of the land, but I can barely hear them."

Durotan was no shaman, but he had plenty of reverence for the ancient ways. A deep frown tugged at his lips. He had seen Drek'thar's skills in battle more times than he could count, and he would never doubt his strength. But to hear something like this... it was worrying. "Something was done to you," he ventured.

"Yes."

The silence hung between them, heavier than the fog that had descended upon the village. Drek'thar was rough at times, the kind of person who would reopen wounds so they might heal. It was born of necessity. Durotan lacked that final, healing touch. Drek'thar had been impetuous in his youth, and those fires had tempered him into a wise adult. It was something Durotan admired even when those flames occasionally rose up and they argued again.

At the end of the day, Durotan could trust Drek'thar. He trusted Drek'thar's abilities, even if the elder shaman did not trust himself. Durotan shifted, revealing a spot of frosty fur that had not hung as close to his skin as he would have liked. He ignored it.

"My mind is still restless from today's battles," Durotan said at last. "Come with me, old friend. You will hear the elements just as clearly in a warm, dry place."

Drek'thar considered the offer. His silence was still cold and stony, as he didn't feel particularly like divulging the details of his lengthy torture and imprisonment, but being blind did not make him impervious to cold. He sighed, and for a moment seemed older than he was. He pushed off his knees and rose, accompanied by the whisper of tattered robes and trophy teeth. "Draka is still south," he noted after a moment.

Durotan nodded and turned toward his hut. Drek'thar's steps halted behind him. "What is it?" the chieftain asked. He had limited patience. If Drek'thar was going to change his mind--

"Let us go to my hut instead. There is something I need to do."

Durotan snarked inwardly that Drek'thar probably didn't have a kettle of warm, meaty broth waiting inside _his_ hut, but he could do without for now. "Very well." He turned his steps to the shaman's living quarters instead. The stones were wet and slick with frozen dew. He heard the slow, warm breathing of Wise-ear as they neared the hut. Durotan opened the flap first and let Drek'thar inside, then closed it behind him and tied it to the floor. The deep freeze was almost always followed by a chill wind in the morning, and he wasn't sure how long he would stay.

He crossed his legs on one of the soft furs. Drek'thar didn't sit just yet, though he wasn't doing it out of rudeness or dishonor. He was busy rifling through a small wooden box. Durotan's keen nose wrinkled. The strong scents of herbs warred in the air of the hut, and he fought back a sneeze.

"Can your potion-making not wait until morning?" Durotan growled. He didn't need a headache from all this... whatever Drek'thar was doing. "If you are so addled in your rapidly-approaching age, I will build the fire myself."

"It's a purification offering," Drek'thar snapped. Durotan bristled somewhat at the lip, but Drek'thar didn't see and therefore didn't care. "Unless you would like to become a shaman in my place, you can wait a moment."

Durotan's lips pulled away from his tusks, but he calmed himself and waited for the shaman to do whatever it is he was supposed to do. Embers from the previous day's fire glowed sleepily in the shadows of the hearth, but their warmth could not penetrate the wet, lingering bone-chill of this night.

Drek'thar finished rebuilding his fire. He held his hands toward it. Durotan watched him as he had many times before, chin in hand. This was the part where Drek'thar would give praise to the fire and ask it to warm their houses so they might live through the night. He usually appealed to the wind as well, asking it to be gentle if it had to roll through the village. Drek'thar's brow furrowed in concentration. Though impatient, Durotan was stone silent as the minutes stretched on. He wondered idly if Drek'thar even had any power left.

The bottom of the twig pile sparked. With that, the fire was rekindled, its warmth lazily filling the hut with Fire's blessing. Smoke drifted upward and escaped through the roof. Drek'thar eased his herbs into the fire, adding another dimension to it. These were melancholy in scent, subtle and deep, not at all like the clamor of herbs that had overtaken the air previously. Durotan knew he was not imagining the way the smoke danced. The wind had accepted this offering as well.

"That seemed successful," Durotan observed. Drek'thar continued to look somewhat surly, but that was his normal state. Maybe he thought Durotan was being sarcastic. He was, a little, but there was no doubting the shaman had done _something_.

"Even if the elements are not loud in my ears, I can still hear them. Appease them." The shaman was clearly struggling with whatever had happened to him, out there in Tanaan. Durotan had counted him dead, and his brother too. Something tightened in his chest at the recent memory, and he looked at the fire instead of milky-white eyes.

"That is good."

"Yes," came the reply, as short as before.

Durotan considered his options as the quiet moved in again. At least it was warmer in here. He could discuss strategy, dividing their forces, talk about repelling the next raid. They could converse in low tones of the Iron Horde's next move. He could ask the shaman if he heard anything, but he already knew the answer to that; Durotan disliked asking fruitless questions. He didn't notice the paling of his knuckles around his knee.

"There was a time when there were few secrets between us," the chieftain murmured, his voice deep and nearly unintelligible. He saw Drek'thar slouch behind the fire; a frown spreading from his graying jaw to his brow. Durotan went on. "I do not know what twisted things they did to you, and I do not care to know if you will not share them. But I know that you have changed." He huffed. "You must not let them shame you."

Drek'thar flinched, and Durotan knew he was right. "I am not _shamed_ ," Drek'thar snarled around his tusks. "I am not shamed by the honorless brutes who took me. If anyone should be shamed, it is _you_ , the chieftain who failed to protect his clan." His bronze voice was steeped in bitter acid.

That hurt. Durotan expected it, though, and kept his own temper in check. He heard Nightstalker patrolling outside before finding his place next to Wise-ear, and then pushed it from his mind. His bright blue eyes settled on Drek'thar; the shaman knew that stare without seeing it. "You are not the first shaman, and you will not be the last. I can see to it that you go to Nagrand, and speak to the shamans there--"

" _No!_ " The outburst surprised them both, but Drek'thar's voice had deepened to a growl and he was not ready to accept the easy way out. "I cannot burden him with this. I am not worthy of even glimpsing the Furies, let alone distracting the keeper!"

Durotan rose. He didn't straighten to his full height, he only moved to sit beside his friend. Calmly, firmly, he clapped a hand on the shaman's shoulder. Drek'thar flinched again, obviously expecting to get backhanded like he had in the past when he'd spoken out of turn. "Drek'thar," the chieftain said. "What did they do to you?"

"I don't _know!_ " Drek'thar sputtered. He slammed his fist into the floor beside him. He hissed and turned away, and his nails made marks in the stone. "Leave me."

"I will not." Durotan didn't dare leave his friend in such a state after putting him there. Whatever crisis of an intimate nature this was, he would help him through it.

" _ **Leave me!**_ " The shaman's warning came with a flash of teeth and tusks, his usual baritone roughened by a tight throat. Durotan remained-- refusing to give Drek'thar the satisfaction of running away again-- and that only infuriated the shaman more. He snarled openly this time and swung his fist. This was obviously not very effective when the attacker was blind. Even at close range and in an awkward position, Durotan was able to catch the thrown punch and turn Drek'thar's momentum against him.

In a second, he had Drek'thar's head tucked in the crook of his arm, his other holding the shaman's wrist in case he tried to claw his way out of the hold. He was helpless with his back toward his chieftain and he knew it. He growled and wriggled, but he could do nothing with both of them on the floor. Durotan felt the smaller orc's heartbeat drumming against his own chest, so close were they. "You have nothing to be ashamed of," Durotan rumbled. "You have proven yourself many times over. I will accept you, even if you come to me with nothing." Durotan knew he wouldn't take another swing and released him.

He was wrong. Drek'thar shoved at the bigger orc, sending Durotan tipping backward into a bundle of furs. A wooden bowl fell and clattered around his head, now unprotected by the wolf-mantle he usually wore. Fighting on the ground was awkward, and he certainly didn't want to knock over the whole hut, but Drek'thar was beyond wisdom now. This was personal. This was pain. Durotan saw the orange flames in Drek'thar's pale eyes. 

Durotan sat up again, his hackles rising. Maybe he'd made a mistake. He had to calm him down. " _Drek'thar--_ "

He didn't have a chance to finish the reprimand. Drek'thar's hands were around his neck, scratching more than clenching, thick dark nails pressing into his brown hide. The old shaman was upon him now. Durotan found himself on his back again. He couldn't get his knees beneath him; Drek'thar pinned him down rather thoroughly with his hips and his weight. Durotan was surprised to note he seemed to weigh less than he remembered, but that was lost in the fog of his instinctive orcish rage.

Durotan shoved at Drek'thar's jaw, trying to loosen his grip. He was rewarded with teeth clamping down on his hand. The chieftain snarled and pulled his hand away. None of the fingers were broken, but there was black blood coating the fleshy palm. So the blind man had somehow drawn first blood. They used to romp like this when they were younger, and Durotan could handle it. His gentleness had limits.

He managed to stand up a knee and shove it between them. Durotan was stronger, and bigger too. He flipped Drek'thar and flattened him in the furs, reversing their position, only he pinned the shaman's wrists down along with the rest of him. He leaned in, dark hair scattering about them, and roared in Drek'thar's sightless face.

Unsurprisingly, Drek'thar didn't back down. He had limits, too. The shaman managed to lift his face a couple inches, just enough to slam his tusks against Durotan's jaw. The gesture was savage, all knives and snarls, and Durotan could taste blood. He wasn't sure if it was his own or Drek'thar's torn lip, or both, but it tasted _good_. It only goaded him on.

He released Drek'thar's wrists. His large hands moved to the front of the shaman's tattered robes instead. He deftly undid the snaps, not wishing to ruin his clothes too badly, and yanked them down to his waist. Light scars and some serious ones marked the old shaman's chest; Durotan noted with some displeasure that a few were not scars at all, but deep wounds treated with salve and bandaged by Drek'thar himself. He hesitated.

Drek'thar didn't like that. Hands free now, he grasped a handful of rough hair and pulled downward so he could latch his teeth onto Durotan's thick neck. The bigger orc growled and lost his train of thought, the sensation of fangs and tusks making it hard to form a detailed battle plan. Drek'thar still had his other hand free, and used it to unseat his chieftain's armored belt. It slid onto the floor with a heavy, satisfying thud.

Durotan was not exactly hiding his affairs from Draka. She was the love of his life, his life-mate, and one day would bear him a strong child. But orcs were passionate and hot-blooded even in the frostiest climates, and they spent much time apart. Durotan was encouraged to produce a heir-- and he had tried-- but that didn't mean he couldn't have other dalliances, short or long-term; Draka was also free to be with whomever she wanted. And so, this was not the first time an argument turned intimate. 

Durotan had known Drek'thar for most of his life. He counted the shaman among his inner circle. Together, they had spoken at length of the world, of spirits and honor, as they gained and lost and lived. Durotan's budding affection as he neared adulthood became something else they shared. The older orc taught him how his body worked, spoke in soft tones as he explained how to please one's mate.

It was with great relish that Durotan turned that knowledge back on the shaman. His calloused hands traveled lightly across the marks the Shattered Hand had left behind. At last, his thumb and forefinger settled around a dark nipple, tracing the shape with his claws. Drek'thar arched into him unexpectedly. The shaman's teeth drew blood near the hollow of Durotan's throat, which made him hiss, but he was beyond caring. Drek'thar licked it as if it might make it better, all the while slipping his free hand beneath Durotan's furs.

The chieftain grunted, leaving Drek'thar's chest and deciding he was hungry instead. He rubbed at the front of his friend's robes, and this time earned a snarl and a real bite. Durotan groaned and tossed his head back. He found Drek'thar's claws digging into his scalp again. Already, the shaman's other hand had found its way past his underclothes-- which now lay on the floor-- and palmed him in the warm, heavy air.

It was getting difficult to focus. Thankfully, orcs didn't need much concentration. Durotan growled lowly, pushed at Drek'thar's invasion. He was determined not to let him get the upper hand-- especially literally. He yanked open the rest of the shaman's robes with no pretense of gentleness, and shoved his legs apart.

The shaman wasn't done, though. His fingers were still thoroughly tangled in Durotan's hair, and he used the leverage-- and a shoulder-- to pull the chieftain's face into his hips. Durotan disliked being told what to do but his virtue was compromise. Bracing himself with one hand, he squeezed Drek'thar's manhood with the other, and hungrily took him into his mouth. His tusks brushed against the thick, corded muscles of Drek'thar's thighs. 

The shaman gasped and flinched beneath him. His groan disappeared into a throaty snarl as Durotan left him with the barest sensation of fangs. In return, the seer's claws tightened in Durotan's scalp, his thumb brushing against a pointed ear; Durotan took that as a sign to hurry up.

Salt and iron were the things he tasted, lips and tongue sucking and squeezing. His hot breath cooled the condensation forming across the apex of the shaman's legs. Drek'thar's hips wouldn't stay still, however. Durotan shifted so his claws dug into the creases of the smaller orc's hip, drew dark lines against dark skin.

Drek'thar would not remain a prisoner. Durotan drew him to the edge, firm in his justice, but the shaman wouldn't let him have the satisfaction of owning him so thoroughly. As usual, he was contrary at the worst possible moment. " _No._ " He pushed Durotan away without warning, which left a nice tusk-scratch along the inside of his thigh.

Hrgh. Durotan sat up, his lips shiny with sweat or blood. He hated being interrupted especially. That second of indecision was all Drek'thar needed. Faster than he expected, Durotan found himself flat on his back yet _again_ , this time with their frustrations slammed together. He swore under his breath. He hated relinquishing control. Drek'thar was already reaching over the furs for a bottle of something, grinning wickedly around his tusks. Durotan thought of flipping him back over but he wasn't inclined to move with the way calloused fingers worked at the tip of his length.

He let his head fall back into the furs. The firelight danced around Drek'thar's silhouette in a certain way, glistening sweat and scars adding to the vision. He had no time to stare, though. Drek'thar rubbed his hands together to warm the salve, then began the task of coating Durotan's length. He twitched and throbbed beneath the shaman's rough healer's touch, and didn't notice that Drek'thar's other hand was elsewhere. The chieftain huffed and tried to sit up on his elbows. "We're not getting any younger," he rumbled. 

Drek'thar slammed down on him in response. Durotan hissed; his shoulder would definitely have a bruise tomorrow. "Be _quiet_." It was hard to follow that order, however. Durotan snarled in surprise as Drek'thar took him in; he was enveloped in tight, tight heat, inch by inch, and it was _torture_. The bastard had stretched himself, he realized.

His hands found the smaller orc's hips. He resisted the urge to take him all at once. Drek'thar set his own pace, which was faster than Durotan could claim for himself. Despite the shaman's fiery core, he had the ability to relax and meditate like any of his greatest peers. Durotan had to be teased and coaxed whenever he was in that position. Though, he'd never been in Drek'thar's exact position before.

Durotan groaned deeply as he was taken in whole, a sound of appreciation that Drek'thar echoed. Once again, black claws dug into his shoulders. Drek'thar moved atop him achingly slow. His graying hair fell like a curtain about his head, tickling Durotan's bare chest. And yet-- Durotan peered at him through half-lidded eyes and found Drek'thar's to be wide open, fixated on him despite his lack of sight, the hearthfire reflected within empty pupils.

Ancestors, he _wanted_. His claws dug into the shaman's skin. Drek'thar squeezed all around him in response, and Durotan almost roared. This was too good, and it had been too long. His resolve wore away to nothing. He no longer cared if the shaman was sore in the morning. Durotan ground into him shamelessly; he had no more patience for slow thrusts.

Drek'thar shoved Durotan down again. He said no words but it was written in his face: _you are mine right now._ He repositioned his hips and took him in again, rougher this time. Durotan rumbled at being pushed around but it was worth it to see Drek'thar's expression go blank.

Yes, Durotan thought. There it is.

Drek'thar's hips rolled and snapped as he rode his chieftain _hard_. There was no pretense of innocence to this, though one could never doubt how close they were. Orcs were hot-blooded and they took their pleasure the same way. Though Durotan burned like a cold fire, he still felt it as intensely as any other of his race; he gasped for breath between deep-seated groans, enjoyment shooting through his nerves like electricity. He clutched at Drek'thar's rear through what remained of his robes, other hand pumping him furiously.

Durotan forced his eyes open and stared back. He struggled and pushed himself up past his elbows so that he might hold Drek'thar flush against him. Now that he knew which spot to hit, he rocked into his shaman with enthusiasm. Drek'thar was practically in a blood frenzy, clawing at every bit of Durotan's skin within reach, snarling, crying out.

He was so wrapped up in his friend's pleasure that he didn't notice the edge until it was too late to stop. Drek'thar squeezed again. Durotan trembled and shivered as everything became white, white heat, his own roar filling his ears until he heard nothing at all. Oh, but he _felt_. Drek'thar convulsed and clutched him-- inside and out-- and spilled into Durotan's frozen hand.

They fell into the furs together, chests heaving, momentarily numb. Drek'thar had a relatively peaceful look on his face for once. Durotan realized it was triumph; he'd solved the argument on his own terms, never letting anyone else make decisions for him. The amount of scratches and blood shed between them made the battle worth something.

They lay on the furs only a foot apart, but to Durotan, it felt like a mile. He set his hand on Drek'thar's upper arm. The shaman hesitated, then covered Durotan's hand with his own.

Durotan's lips tightened.

There were many nights of hopeless cold in Frostfire Ridge, and the worst of them could kill anyone unprepared. But there was always safety in sharing that misery with close friends. There was solace, and warmth, and there was comfort in shedding blood together. 

 

-f.


End file.
